One of the Thais in blue stepped forward and introduced himself as Pipop. He was in his early forties with skin so dark that it was almost as black as Joshua’s. He was slim but well muscled and had a nose that looked as if it had been broken several times. Pipop explained in halting English that the men wearing blue were trustys, prisoners like themselves but with added responsibilities. ‘Anything you want, we will get for you,’ said Pipop. ‘Any money you have is registered with the front office. You can use that money to buy food from the outside. You tell us and we will have it brought in for you. Stamps, writing paper, soap, we can supply anything for you. You do not ask the guards for anything. You ask us. Do you understand?’
The prisoners nodded.
Matt said something to the trusty in Thai.
Pipop nodded. ‘You will get ten baht a week for working in the furniture workshop.’
‘Ten baht?’ exclaimed Matt. ‘That’s nothing.’
Pipop smiled cruelly. ‘That is right. You will have to have money sent in from outside. You will be woken at six. You start work at seven.’
Hutch looked around for somewhere to sit. The only floor space was close to the toilet. He caught Joshua’s eye and the two men grimaced together. ‘Toss you for it?’ said Hutch.
Joshua grinned. ‘Help yourself. I’m gonna stand for a while.’
A guard appeared and he talked to Pipop before reaching for a key chained to his belt. Hutch stepped towards the bars and watched as the guard locked the cell door. He stared at the key as the guard withdrew it, trying to imprint the shape on his memory.
The guard and trustys walked along the catwalk, laughing together. Matt joined Hutch at the bars. They stood together, looking out over the catwalk at the cells opposite. In virtually all the cells sheets or blankets had been put up along the bottom of the bars to give the prisoners a measure of privacy.
‘Ten baht?’ repeated Matt incredulously. ‘Ten baht a week?’
‘Haven’t you got people who can send you money?’ Hutch asked.
‘No way,’ said the American. ‘I split from my family years ago, and my Thai girlfriend won’t hang around. I’m up shit creek.’ He went over to the concrete wall next to the toilet and sat down.
Hutch watched the guard and trustys go downstairs and walk across the courtyard, then turned around. Joshua was deep in conversation with another Nigerian. Matt had his eyes closed. An old Oriental moved his blanket to the side to make room for Hutch. There was barely enough floor space for everyone to lie down at the same time. Hutch smiled his thanks and sat down on the hard concrete floor. A mosquito whizzed by his left ear. The noise from the surrounding cells was almost deafening, an incomprehensible mixture of languages and accents, mixed with shouts and screams and moans. He put his hands over his ears and closed his eyes. He wasn’t looking forward to his first night in Klong Prem.
CHAU-LING RESTED HER HEAD against the side of the plane and felt the vibration deep inside her skull. The seat next to her was empty and she was grateful for the space: the last thing she wanted was for someone to attempt to engage her in conversation. Go back to Hong Kong, Warren had said. Forget about him. She banged her fist against her leg. Forget about him? How the hell did he expect her to do that? There wasn’t a day that had gone by since they’d first met that Warren Hastings hadn’t occupied her thoughts. Why did he think she’d stuck at the job so long? It wasn’t as if she needed the money, he knew that. She’d taken the job originally because she loved dogs and had wanted to start breeding Golden Retrievers. Working for Warren had seemed an obvious way of picking up the necessary knowledge: his kennels and the quality of his Dobermanns were renowned through the territory. She’d made it clear from the start that she only intended to work for him for six months or so and that her eventual aim was to set up her own kennels. But that had been almost two years ago and she had made no attempt to leave. She’d found him attractive right from the start, and his apparent lack of interest only added to his appeal. Chau-ling was used to being pursued. She was well aware of her looks, had been since she was a teenager, and she’d had a succession of boyfriends while she was at college in the United States, but always it was they who chased her. In Hong Kong her pursuers were all the more persistent, because her father’s wealth was well known, and in Hong Kong money often counted for more than looks. But Warren Hastings had never asked her out, hadn’t even asked her if she had a boyfriend.
A stewardess asked her in Cantonese if she wanted a drink. Chau-ling shook her head. She massaged her temples with her fingertips. ‘Headache?’ asked the stewardess.
Chau-ling forced a smile. ‘I’m fine,’ she said.
‘I could get you something.’
‘Really, I’m fine,’ she said. Chau-ling never took painkillers, or any form of Western medication. On the few occasions in her life when she’d fallen sick as a child, her parents had consulted a traditional Chinese herbalist, and now that she was an adult she continued the practice.
The stewardess moved away to attend to a Thai businessman who was having trouble opening his packet of peanuts. Chau-ling looked out of the window. The sky was a brilliant blue, the clouds below a pure white. They looked almost solid enough to walk on. She wondered what Warren was doing. He’d looked terrible in the courtroom. He hadn’t shaved, he hadn’t washed, and there was a look in his eyes that she’d never seen before. It was the look of a trapped animal.
Chau-ling ran her hands through her hair and tucked it behind her ears. It didn’t make any kind of sense. If Warren was innocent, why wouldn’t he accept Khun Kriengsak’s help? And why had he been so convinced that he’d never go to trial? She was certain that there had been a mistake; there was no way that a man like Warren would ever get involved with drugs. But the evidence was overwhelming, and she couldn’t see how he’d expect to avoid a trial. The way his shoulders had sagged when she’d told him about the laboratory results had almost broken her heart. She wanted to take him in her arms and hold him, to comfort him and tell him that whatever happened she’d always stand by him. There had to be something she could do, some way in which she could help. Her lower lip began to tremble and she fought back the tears.
She’d gone to the prison with Khun Kriengsak and tried to see Warren, but had been told that Thursday was the only day she could visit. The lawyer had shown her how to deposit money so that Warren could make himself a little more comfortable. She had had to queue with him in the searing sunshine outside a window set into the prison perimeter, close to a cafeteria serving cooked meals and soft drinks. Two beige-uniformed guards sat on the other side of the window. Putting money in Warren’s prison account had been surprisingly easy: she handed over twenty thousand baht and her passport and a piece of paper with Warren’s name on it. In return she was given a receipt. It was a small thing, the least that she could do. No, she corrected herself, it was all she could do, for the moment at least. Khun Kriengsak had insisted that nothing would happen until Warren’s next court appearance, and that she might as well wait in Hong Kong. She knew that the lawyer was right, but that didn’t make leaving any easier. The tears began to fall and she turned her head to the window, not wanting anyone to see her grief.
THE SONG WAS ‘MY WAY’, the singer a tall girl with shoulder-length permed hair and a sky-blue evening dress that reached almost to the ground but did little to conceal her ample breasts. She stood in front of a large-screen television which showed pictures of a young Thai couple walking hand in hand through the streets of Paris while the words to the song scrolled across the bottom.
‘Decisions, decisions,’ said Billy Winter, swirling his brandy and Coke around his tumbler. ‘I really don’t know which one to choose, mamasan.’
The mamasan was in her sixties, wearing a sequined dress that tried but failed to bolster her sagging figure. She smiled, showing gleaming white teeth that belied her age, and put a bony hand on his arm. ‘Why choose just one, Khun Billy?’ she said.
Winter cackled and sucked on his
cigar. ‘Why indeed, mamasan? Why indeed?’ He drained his glass and surveyed the half a dozen girls in vibrant-coloured evening dresses who were sitting at a neighbouring table. ‘Who else would you recommend?’ he asked.
‘Som is always popular,’ said the mamasan, nodding at a girl in a skintight red dress with waist-length hair that would have done credit to any shampoo commercial, and a cleavage that could have trebled brassíre sales. She had the face of a schoolgirl, unlined and innocent, and she covered her mouth with a petite hand as she giggled at something on the television screen.
‘How old is she?’ asked Winter.
‘Eighteen,’ said the mamasan.
Winter grinned. Som was fifteen, at most. ‘I hope she’s not too popular,’ said Winter, the cigar clenched between his teeth.
‘All our girls are checked regularly,’ said the mamasan. ‘They have a general check every month, and they’re tested for AIDS every three months. If the girls are sick, they cannot work.’
‘So, what about the girl who’s just started singing? Tell me about her,’ said Winter.
The mamasan looked at Winter for a few moments, then turned to look at the new singer, who was struggling to keep up with the words on the screen. She had short hair with a fringe and was wearing a tight black dress cut low at the front that only emphasised how boyish her figure was. She wasn’t the type that Winter normally went for, but there was a fearful look in her eyes that appealed to him. ‘Ah. Geng. She is a new girl. She only started work last month.’
Winter took the cigar out of his mouth and jabbed it in the girl’s direction. ‘How old is she?’
‘Eighteen.’
Winter grinned. ‘Pretty little thing,’ he said. Geng stumbled over her words and tried frantically to catch up with the music.
‘Inexperienced,’ said the mamasan. ‘I have had complaints. Sometimes she isn’t very enthusiastic.’
The lift doors at the far end of the bar opened. All the girls in the bar immediately brightened and turned on their smiles. It was Bird, carrying a notebook. He ignored the display of young flesh and headed straight for Winter’s table.
Winter raised his brandy glass in salute. ‘Bird, pull up a hooker and join us,’ he said brightly. ‘You’re just in time to help me choose.’
Bird handed the notebook to Winter, sat down and ordered a Singha beer from the mamasan, who spoke to him in Thai. They continued to talk as Winter flicked through the notebook. Most of it was in spidery shorthand but there were several notes in capital letters. The mamasan poured Bird’s beer and then went over to talk to the cashier.
Winter looked up from the notebook. ‘She was thorough. The DEA, the cops, the detention centre, Hong Kong. And she’s getting his passport checked out.’
‘Yes. I saw that.’
‘And the lawyer. Kriengsak or whatever his name was. He’s still around?’
A waitress walked over with a dish of salted peanuts which she put down next to the bottle of brandy. Bird stayed silent until she was out of earshot. ‘He’s taking a close interest in the case. He was at the hearing. The girl who works for Hutch was there, too.’
Winter picked up the notebook again. He opened it and found the page he was looking for. ‘Chau-ling Tsang?’
‘Tsang Chau-ling,’ said Bird. ‘The family name comes first. She’s back in Hong Kong now, at Hutch’s kennels.’
Winter nodded. ‘Hutch has tried to dissuade them from poking their noses where they’re not wanted?’
‘Yes. But the girl is continuing to pay the lawyer’s fees.’
‘We can’t have the lawyer screwing things up for us. The time might come when Hutch decides he wants to find a legal way out of his predicament. We have to make sure that he doesn’t have that option.’
Bird whistled softly through his teeth and shook his head. ‘Khun Kriengsak has connections in Bangkok,’ he said. ‘Political, social and legal. He is very well known, very influential. His brother-in-law is a general in the army; he is related by marriage to the Royal Family; two of his brothers are high up in the police. Getting rid of a farang journalist is one thing; a man of his status . . .’ Bird left the sentence unfinished.
‘Money isn’t a problem,’ said Winter. ‘Whatever it takes.’
‘It’s not a question of money,’ said Bird. ‘Khun Kriengsak is untouchable. I wouldn’t be able to find anyone to do it.’
Winter looked at Bird through narrowed eyes. ‘What about you?’
Bird avoided Winter’s glacial stare.
‘Well?’ Winter pressed.
‘I wouldn’t do it either,’ Bird said after a pause of several seconds. ‘They’d move heaven and earth to find out who did it. A murder like that wouldn’t go unpunished.’
Winter stared at Bird, and then smiled. It was a baring of the teeth, as artificial as the smiles of the girls at the neighbouring table. ‘So if we can’t get the lawyer, we get the person who’s paying his bills. I’ve never yet met a brief who worked for free.’
Bird nodded slowly. ‘I can send someone,’ he said.
‘Soon?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘Soon enough,’ said Winter. He patted Bird on the back and waved his cigar at the mamasan, pointing at Bird’s empty glass once he’d attracted her attention. ‘Have another beer, then help me choose my playmates,’ he said. He jabbed his cigar in the direction of the singer. ‘What about her?’ he asked. ‘What do you think?’
Bird nodded. ‘Pretty girl.’
Winter pointed at another young girl who was sitting straight-backed and smiling for all she was worth. ‘What about her? Apparently her body massage drives you wild. I can’t make up my mind between the two.’
Bird grinned and scratched the scar on his cheek. He looked across at the mamasan and then back at Winter. ‘It’s a guy, Billy.’
Winter stared at him in astonishment for several seconds, then he shook his head. ‘Nah,’ he said. ‘You’re pulling my chain.’ He narrowed his eyes and stared at the girl. She pointed between her cleavage. ‘Look at those breasts,’ he said. ‘You can’t tell me that’s a guy.’ Bird shrugged. Winter drew on his cigar and exhaled slowly. He looked at the singer, then back to the girl. ‘How can you tell?’ he asked.
‘Thai girls are short. He’s tall. The hands are big, too.’
Winter looked. They were long and elegant with perfectly painted nails. But Bird was right, they were big. They weren’t a woman’s hands. He nodded.
‘And the breasts are too good. They’re definitely implants.’
Winter sat back in his chair. ‘Bloody hell,’ he said. He drained his brandy glass and slammed it down on the table. ‘Looks like it’s going to be Geng, then.’ He waved over at the mamasan and pointed at the singer, who had given up trying to sing and was now humming along to the music.
‘What about Hutch?’ asked Bird. ‘When are you going to talk to him?’
Winter flicked ash from his cigar on to the carpeted floor. ‘A day or two,’ he said. ‘I want him to sweat for a little while longer.’
HUTCH WOKE UP WITH a raging thirst and three more mosquito bites on his left arm. He’d left the antihistamine cream in the detention centre and had no idea when he’d be able to get more. He sat up and stretched. His back ached and the skin around his ankles was red raw. The fluorescent lights had remained on all night and he’d had to pull his shirt over his head to get some relief from the brightness. Many of the prisoners had strips of cloth which they draped over their eyes, so Hutch figured that the lights were never switched off. He sat up and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hands.
Joshua was already awake, sitting with his back to the wall. The Nigerian waved a greeting. ‘Sleep well?’ he asked playfully.
‘How come you’re so cheerful?’ asked Hutch.
Joshua shrugged. ‘This is gonna be my home for fifty years or so, so I might as well make the best of it.’ He had a plastic bottle of water by his side which he tossed to Hutch.
Hutch drank grate
fully. ‘Where did you get this from?’ he asked.
Joshua nodded at the big Nigerian sleeping next to him. ‘Baz. He’s a friend of a friend,’ he said.
‘How long’s he been here?’ asked Hutch.
‘Eight years.’
Hutch looked around the cell. Eight years, he thought. How could a man spend eight years in a hellhole like Klong Prem and remain sane?
‘My lawyer said I could buy myself a better cell. Is that right?’
Joshua nodded. ‘Baz says there are private cells. The prisoners buy them and pay a monthly rent. Then they can choose who they want to share with them.’
Hutch exhaled through his teeth. The way the prison was run made no sense at all.
‘It’s Thailand,’ said Joshua, as if reading his mind. ‘Money gets you anything here. My friend was telling me that at the old prison, rich Thai prisoners would pay other men to serve their time.’
‘What about money? How do I get it?’
‘You don’t. You get vouchers every day to buy stuff, but the rest of it stays in the book. The trustys arrange to transfer it between accounts, and they take a cut.’
Hutch’s stomach growled. He had to use the toilet, and soon. He stumbled to his feet and carefully threaded his way between the legs of sleeping prisoners. The squat toilet was covered with a layer of dirty brown crud and Hutch wrinkled his nose in disgust. He had to hold on to the concrete wall to balance himself over the toilet. The smell was nauseating and he tried to hold his breath as long as possible. Joshua laughed at his predicament but Hutch failed to see the funny side. His shit came out in a liquid stream. Afterwards he splashed water on himself but he still didn’t feel clean. He pulled his cut-off jeans back up and hobbled back to his place. Before he could sit down there were cries of ‘Kao, kao’ from the lower level.
The Solitary Man (Stephen Leather Thrillers) Page 25